Reborn as a Useless Noble with my SSS-Class Innate Talent-Chapter 187: Ch : He Survived- Part 3

The day after Kyle’s training surprise, the barracks buzzed with stories of what had happened.

Soldiers who had watched him spar, or trained beside him unaware of his identity, now recounted the event to others with wide eyes and awe in their tone.

A noble—a real noble—had fought beside them in the dirt, taken hits, and spoken about protecting their lives. It was unheard of.

"He really said he’d do everything to keep us alive."

"No noble’s ever said that before."

"I saw him spar with Varn. Knocked him flat in three moves."

It didn’t take long before Kyle Armstrong became a name spoken with respect, even admiration, among the ranks.

His unexpected humility, his strength, and his sincerity had won over many in a single day.

The ripple of support became a wave, and soon, soldiers who had once followed orders with dull indifference were beginning to ask, what else does the new commander have planned?

Kyle noticed. And he capitalized on it.

By sunrise the next day, he posted new notices on the training board—mock drills, strategic exercises, defense techniques designed to keep men alive in the chaos of war.

These weren’t just brute-force trainings. Kyle focused on mobility, teamwork, stamina conservation—lessons clearly meant to protect lives, not just end them.

The moment the new regimens began, men eagerly signed up.

Kyle’s name was whispered with pride. His drills, intense and clever, made even veteran warriors feel like they were learning something new.

Watching this unfold, Kyle was calm but focused. He didn’t need to preach loyalty. His actions were enough.

’Give them the power to survive, and they’ll follow me of their own will.’

He thought.

But where the soldiers were energized, not everyone was pleased.

Within Baron Adam’s estate, the noble-born commanders of the Adam family looked on with sour expressions.

Kyle Armstrong was becoming a problem. His presence, his words, his method—it all shook the foundation they had carefully constructed.

"He’s undermining our authority."

"These men are questioning our methods now."

"He’s a child playing at war," one sneered, though his eyes betrayed uncertainty.

Yet, they could do nothing openly.

Baron Adam himself had named Kyle a commander. Any direct opposition would be seen as insubordination.

So they turned to quieter solutions.

That evening, Kyle received an invitation.

A simple one—cordial, respectful. A few of the older commanders invited him to a private dinner at the officer’s mess. A gesture of welcome, they said.

Kyle smiled when he saw the note. He wasn’t surprised.

He accepted.

When he entered the room, the atmosphere was too polished. Too still. Smiles too sharp, voices too smooth.

The food was served quickly—lavish dishes, finely prepared. Kyle sat, appearing at ease, and engaged in conversation as he picked up his chopsticks.

He paused before eating.

The scent was faint but present. He recognized it—a specific kind of root extract, near tasteless when cooked right, but poisonous in the wrong amounts.

Kyle didn’t let his face change. Instead, he smiled faintly and placed his chopsticks down.

"How thoughtful. But I must admit, I’ve already eaten."

He said lightly,

The commanders blinked, confused for a moment, then wary. One chuckled.

"Nervous, Commander Armstrong? Not used to noble company anymore?"

Kyle tilted his head, his smile never reaching his eyes.

"Let’s just say, I’ve developed certain instincts over the years."

No one spoke. The tension settled like a blade.

"I hope none of you would be foolish enough to think that poison would solve anything. After all, I’m not here because I’m unprepared."

Kyle’s voice was soft, almost amused.

One of the commanders leaned forward.

"You’ve made a lot of noise in a short time, Lord Armstrong. Some of us think you should slow down."

Kyle met his gaze evenly.

"And some of us think this army should evolve, so fewer soldiers die for nothing."

The silence that followed was thick with barely masked hostility.

Kyle stood calmly.

"If anyone here is feeling... threatened by the soldiers’ support of me, then maybe it’s time to ask why they never gave it to you."

With that, he left the table.

Outside the officer’s mess, Kyle exhaled slowly. He hadn’t eaten a bite, but he felt full.

He’d expected resistance.

’Now, let’s see which of them makes the next move... and which of them ends up following me instead.’

He though.

The next evening, the nobles tried again.

Having failed to poison Kyle during their shared dinner without exposing themselves, they decided to shift tactics.

This time, they would not be seen. No warm smiles, no veiled threats—just silence.

The poisoned food would be sent directly to Kyle’s quarters, disguised as a simple, routine meal.

It would be served by a regular kitchen hand, and even if something went wrong, no one could trace it back to them.

It was the safest path forward.

After all, a commander falling ill from his own supper? Unfortunate, but not suspicious.

But Kyle wasn’t naive.

He noticed the difference immediately.

The aroma was slightly off. The meat glistened a little too much, and the gravy had a faint, acidic undertone.

He recognized the same kind of slow-acting poison—a blend meant to weaken the nerves first, then shut down the heart.

Kyle looked at the tray, then calmly sat down.

With a flicker of mana in his palm, he ran a silent enchantment through the plate, a technique meant to isolate foreign substances. The dish lit up in thin, red threads. Definitely poisoned.

He didn’t hesitate.

Kyle lifted his spoon and began eating.

Each bite, he neutralized internally, weaving controlled threads of mana through his bloodstream.

His body hummed quietly, like a well-oiled machine.

It was a risky move—demanding perfect control—but he had done this before. It would send a message far clearer than confrontation ever could.

’You cannot touch me.’

The next morning, the sun rose over Baron Adam’s estate, casting long golden shadows through the training yard.

Soldiers assembled. Officers emerged from their rooms. And from the corner of their eyes, several noble-born commanders looked toward Kyle’s quarters.

They waited.

If their poison had worked, Kyle should be groggy at best, or vomiting. Perhaps unconscious. Ideally dead.

The door opened.

Kyle stepped out.

He looked as sharp as ever. His stride was steady, face composed, posture upright.

His eyes scanned the yard with purpose before he moved toward the morning drills without hesitation.

No limp. No pallor. No sign of distress.

The lords froze, eyes wide with disbelief.

"He’s fine?"

One muttered under his breath.

Another looked pale.

"He ate that food. I saw the tray returned empty."

"How...?"

Across the yard, Kyle turned his head slightly—just enough to glance at them.

He smiled.

It wasn’t warm.

The nobles said nothing, but tension crackled in the air. They had tried twice. Failed twice.

And Kyle Armstrong, the outsider noble they sought to humiliate or kill, was still walking among them. Worse—he looked unbothered.

For the commanders who had grown too comfortable in their positions, Kyle’s presence was a threat. He was not just strong. He was calculating, calm, and now... untouchable.

The poison hadn’t broken him.

It had only confirmed what they feared:

Kyle Armstrong was not someone they could control.